


Revisiting the Ghosts

by Benji_Deeds



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Eating Disorders, Forced Eating Disorder, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It was fun to write, M/M, and i like christian frost so, christian visits the institution, fear of the dark, idk - Freeform, thats essentially it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22935871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benji_Deeds/pseuds/Benji_Deeds
Summary: Between him and the place of his nightmares was a door. A door he knew Winston had stood in front of at one point. Emma had told him that much.-------Christian Frost revisits the institution he was forced into, and recollects a few of the nightmares he faced there.
Relationships: Christian Frost & Emma Frost
Kudos: 3





	Revisiting the Ghosts

Rain slid down the sharp slope of Christian’s nose, arousing him from his thoughts. He tugged the soft jacket he wore tighter around him, the chill cutting through far too much for how thin he was. To tell the truth, he wasn’t quite sure why he was going there at all. And, God knows why he decided to walk there, rather than take the bus or even ask Emma for a ride. It was something outside of thought; something more like an urge that he couldn’t help but to fulfill. 

Dredging through the puddles, the water weighing on him just as his thoughts were, he made it to the base of the stairs, looking up at them with a heavy sigh caught in his chest. There was something looming over him - a dark grey cloud that he couldn't shake since he left the place. Maybe he'd always had it; such a thing was hard to tell. One step up. Shaky legs nearly gave out on him already. Why was he so shaky again? He was fine. He was…being dragged by the arms, his limp legs behind him. Doped out and barely comprehending anything around him, he couldn't take the steps for himself. What was happening? Did Winston do this? Or-Or Emma - she - please, don't let it have been her. Christian shook away the memory, hating himself again for how weak he was being about this. Another step up. Then another. He made it to the top of the stairs. 

Between him and the place of his nightmares was a door. A door he knew Winston had stood in front of at one point. Emma had told him that much. She tried to come, and sure, Christian believed her. He had to believe her; she came that time, hadn't she? Her and Bobby both, a rescue mission not even needed anymore. He could've walked out of there at any point by the time they arrived. Why hadn't he? But, yes, Winston would stand here. Hands on his creaking, old hips. His square jaw set, triumphant almost that he'd locked his son away. (Christian wished he'd been sent to rehab. God knows that would've been better for him.) One hand reached out, barely hovering over the door. Why did Christian feel the need to draw a breath to just open it? And why was he so exhausted afterward? 

As he stepped inside, a cloud of dust hit him. The institution hadn't even been abandoned for long, yet its ghosts couldn't even dust a tad? Christian mused to himself, as if to numb some of the dread pouring into his stomach. Would the electricity still work, he pondered, or were the funds to this place not automatic? He hummed, expression remaining tight and neutral as he held his phone up to search for a light. Ah, there was one, in the corner. Slow, not-so-steady legs approached the light, and a cold hand flicked it on. To his surprise - and partial gratitude - the first section of lights were dimly lit. Christian's soft hum was soon cut off by a breathless sort of gasp by the achingly *loud* memory resurfacing. Winston's hand had been on his, crushing his fingers around the light switch. Christian's voice wobbled, turning into a wail of sorts at the strength Winston exhibited over his own. Crushing, crushing, crushing, until he felt he might break, pop a blood vessel, suffocate, something. Then, Winston tossed him back, back into the closet-sized room and turned off the light. "If we can't starve the gay out of you, then we'll wait it out. I think you'll come around, eventually." A door slammed shut. And Christian was left in an unfamiliar darkness, his throat closing shut as panic coursed through his veins. He still wasn't sure how long he'd been left in there the first time. Not a hazy clue for the last. Shaking vehemently, Christian backed away from the lightswitch and held his hand close to his chest. Why did it ache even now?

He turned, his feet working as if automatic toward somewhere down the hall. He knew exactly where he was headed, however, though the twisting feeling in his gut shouted at him not to. His footsteps fell with an echo much heavier than he was. Close to starvation several times in his life, whether self-inflicted or by others here, he wasn't anything above 130 pounds for most of his adult life, terrible for his height. Christian decided it was fine to despise himself for where he was going, even as his tired mind said he deserved the sad, rounded sort of closure. His automated footsteps stopped him in front of the room, and suddenly he wished Emma had been here beside him. If not her, then someone. Anyone to help him face the memory associated with this. 

His name had been Elijah, and Christian had decided that from the moment they met, his eyes were too sad for someone so handsome. He was the touch of kindness this place needed, though of course, it didn't deserve. In his wide, brown eyes, Christian saw a reflection of something...happy rekindling in his otherwise decidedly tragic life. He'd been a nurse, apparently transferred here much to his own discomfort, and though he wasn't the only one with such a story, his kind - rather large, Christian had duly noted for later - hands were something the others lacked. His voice was charming, and his smile brought one even to Christian's own sad, chapped lips.

They had liked to talk here. The main room with the piano Christian played effortlessly. Elijah chatted compliments to him, promising smoothly that he'd get out of this and make it big with his music one day. He had managed to bring a twinge of pink to Christian's pale cheeks, and a flutter of something else in his chest. There was a pang from his heart when he realized just how much Elijah reminded him of Dante. Another when he realized again that he was falling in love with someone he could never make happy.

Christian blinked back tears. God, when had he started crying? His bottom lip wavered as he ran his palm over the top of the piano. This is where they'd kissed. Where Winston had found out and publicly humiliated him. Where Elijah lost his job - another bitter reminder of Dante. And where, if it ever came to it, Christian would take his own life. Permanently this time. No one would be there to save him as Emma had during his first attempt. No one had cared. Christian felt the tears roll over his cheeks, wet and hot, like something he had to let out. A ghost haunting him that he had to expel. He took one last look around the place and with the wrenching in his gut, firmly decided that it was enough closure for him. Christian would use whatever funds it took to shut the place down permanently, along with whatever other hellscape like it. At least he'd make something better of himself. 

"Just like you always wanted, hm, Winston?" Christian gave an ironic sort of scoff, turning on his heels to briskly leave. As he shut the door behind him, he felt his legs become more steady, his chest ache less, and his head clear. He made his final decision of that night: one that he would end up okay.


End file.
